Chapter 3 - The Numbers That Shouldn’t Exist
By Friday, Vincent knew someone had been stealing from his employees for four years.
By Saturday, he knew the theft was the smallest part of the problem.
Anthony DeLuca had been clever.
Not brilliant.
Brilliance attracted attention.
Anthony understood something more useful: wealthy men rarely examined small expenses personally.
Vincent reviewed shipments worth millions.
He watched political contributions.
He tracked casino revenue.
He demanded daily reports on businesses that generated enough cash to tempt dishonest employees.
But housekeeping payroll?
Landscaping contracts?
Kitchen suppliers?
Vincent had delegated those things.
Anthony knew it.
He created false administrative fees.
Changed employment contracts.
Manipulated overtime records.
Invented employee loans.
Then skimmed the difference.
A few hundred dollars here.
Eight hundred there.
Never enough to make one person believe a crime had occurred.
Just enough to make struggling workers think life was more expensive than they could afford.
Carmen had been the perfect target.
Single mother.
Quiet.
Proud.
Unlikely to complain.
That realization made Vincent angrier every time he thought about it.
But money wasn't Anthony's most valuable product.
Information was.
Marco entered the study carrying a laptop.
“We found twelve outgoing messages to a burner number.”
Vincent looked up.
“From Anthony?”
“Device registered under one of his assistant's vendor accounts, but yes.”
“Recipient?”
“Burner.”
“Location history?”
Marco turned the laptop.
“Guess.”
Vincent studied the map.
A social club in Queens.
Owned by a company controlled by Lorenzo Moretti's cousin.
Vincent leaned back.
“What did he send?”
“Mostly scheduling information.”
“Specific.”
“Staff rotations. Delivery windows. Which entrances contractors use.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“Security?”
“Nothing obvious.”
“That means yes.”
Marco nodded grimly.
“Probably encoded.”
Vincent stood.
“Bring Anthony in.”
Marco didn't move.
Vincent looked at him.
“What?”
“You said we were keeping him comfortable.”
“That was before I learned he sold access to my home.”
“And if you confront him now, Moretti knows we found him.”
Vincent knew Marco was right.
He hated when Marco was right.
“Then watch him.”
“Already am.”
Vincent walked toward the bar.
He poured water instead of whiskey.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Lorenzo.
Dinner Monday. We should finish our conversation.
Vincent showed Marco.
Marco smiled without humor.
“Perfect timing.”
“It isn't timing.”
“You think Anthony told him?”
“I think Lorenzo wants to know how much I know.”
Marco sat.
“Then what do we do?”
“We let him wonder.”
Vincent's phone buzzed again.
Not Lorenzo.
Carmen.
She rarely contacted him directly.
Mr. Torino, may I speak with you before I leave today?
Vincent responded immediately.
Study. 5:30.
At exactly 5:30, Carmen knocked.
She entered carrying an envelope.
Vincent noticed her expression.
Determined.
That usually meant trouble.
“Sit.”
“I'd rather stand.”
He set down his pen.
“That's never a good beginning.”
Carmen placed the envelope on his desk.
Inside was a check.
The repayment he'd arranged.
Thirty-four thousand eight hundred dollars.
She had endorsed nothing.
“I can't take this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No.”
“It belongs to you.”
“I didn't earn thirty-four thousand dollars this month.”
“You earned it over twenty-three months.”
Carmen shook her head.
“I don't understand enough about what's happening.”
“Someone altered your contract.”
“You told me that.”
“They stole the difference.”
Her expression changed.
“Who?”
“I'm handling it.”
“That means you know.”
“Carmen.”
“Was it Anthony?”
Vincent's silence was brief.
Too brief.
Her face went pale.
“You know.”
“How did you guess?”
“He handled my hiring.”
Vincent leaned back.
Carmen continued.
“He told me the original salary had been reduced because the position no longer included weekend work.”
“It did.”
“He said everyone had taken reductions.”
“They hadn't.”
Carmen closed her eyes.
Vincent watched anger replace embarrassment.
Good.
Anger was healthier.
“He knew about Isabella.”
Vincent sat forward.
“What do you mean?”
“Not the pantry.”
“Then what?”
Carmen hesitated.
“The medicine.”
Vincent's expression hardened.
“Explain.”
“Six months ago I asked whether the household had any kind of employee assistance program. I wasn't asking for free money. I asked if I could take extra shifts.”
“And?”
“He said no.”
“That alone means nothing.”
“He asked why.”
Vincent waited.
“I told him prescriptions had gotten expensive.”
“And then?”
“He offered me a loan.”
Vincent became still.
“What loan?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
“You took it?”
“Yes.”
“Show me the agreement.”
“I don't have it.”
“Why?”
“He said it was an internal advance.”
Vincent reached for his phone.
Carmen's voice stopped him.
“Wait.”
He looked up.
She seemed frightened again.
“Don't do anything because you're angry.”
“Carmen.”
“I mean it.”
“You just told me one of my employees exploited your daughter's medical needs to create undocumented debt.”
“I know.”
“Then you should understand why I'm angry.”
“I do.”
“No. I don't think you do.”
Vincent stood.
“You thought your salary was thirty-eight thousand because he lied. Then when that stolen salary made medicine difficult to afford, he loaned you money that was already yours.”
Carmen's eyes filled.
Vincent's voice dropped.
“That man made you grateful for receiving your own money.”
Silence.
Carmen looked away.
Vincent forced himself to calm down.
“What happened after the loan?”
“He deducted one hundred fifty dollars from every paycheck.”
“For how long?”
“Six months.”
“That's eighteen hundred.”
“I know.”
“Interest?”
“He said administrative fees.”
Vincent laughed once.
There was nothing pleasant in it.
Carmen looked worried.
Vincent walked toward the window.
“Do you know what men like Anthony count on?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
She frowned.
“They take from people who won't complain because admitting they're struggling feels worse than losing the money.”
Carmen stared at him.
Vincent turned back.
“I know because my father was one of those people.”
She hadn't expected that.
Few people knew much about Vincent before power.
“My mother cleaned hotel rooms,” he said. “My father unloaded trucks. When somebody shorted his pay, he didn't complain.”
“Why?”
“Because his English wasn't good. Because there were twenty other men waiting for the job. Because pride can make poverty expensive.”
Carmen slowly sat.
Vincent looked at the check.
“Take your money.”
She touched the envelope.
“Why did you add so much?”
“Interest.”
A faint smile appeared.
“You charged him interest?”
“I charged myself.”
That surprised her.
Vincent shrugged.
“My house. My responsibility.”
“You didn't know.”
“I should have.”
Carmen studied him.
For a moment, the feared mafia boss disappeared.
She saw something else.
A man who actually believed power came with responsibility.
Perhaps he had simply forgotten.
Or perhaps Isabella had reminded him.
“Thank you,” Carmen said.
Vincent nodded.
She slipped the envelope into her bag.
Then hesitated.
“Isabella wants to apologize.”
“For what?”
“The drawing.”
Vincent's face became blank.
“What drawing?”
Carmen nearly smiled.
“Marco told me.”
“Marco talks too much.”
“She wants to know if you were offended.”
Vincent opened his desk drawer.
The drawing lay flat inside.
Carmen saw it.
Her eyebrows rose.
“You kept it.”
“Evidence.”
“Of what?”
“Defamation.”
Carmen laughed.
The sound startled him.
Not because it was loud.
Because he liked it.
Too much.
Vincent closed the drawer.
“Tell Isabella I'm considering legal action.”
Carmen smiled.
“She'll be terrified.”
“She doesn't seem especially terrified anymore.”
“No.”
Carmen's expression softened.
“She likes you.”
Vincent suddenly wished they were discussing armed robbery instead.
“I make bad eggs.”
“She told her entire class that.”
Vincent stared at her.
“What?”
“She had to write about something unusual that happened this week.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“Wonderful.”
“Apparently you burned breakfast.”
“Once.”
“According to Isabella, twice.”
“Your daughter is unreliable.”
“She also said you protected her.”
Vincent opened his eyes.
Carmen was no longer smiling.
“Thank you for that.”
He nodded.
“She didn't need protection from Marco.”
“She didn't know that.”
“No.”
Carmen's gaze lowered.
“When children have been disappointed enough, they start expecting everybody to become dangerous eventually.”
Vincent wondered whether they were still talking about Isabella.
Before he could ask, his office phone rang.
Marco.
Vincent answered.
“What?”
“Anthony just left the house.”
“He's off at six.”
“It's five forty-three.”
Vincent checked his watch.
“Where's he going?”
“We put a car on him.”
“And?”
“He's heading toward Queens.”
Vincent and Carmen exchanged a look.
“Stay with him.”
Vincent hung up.
Carmen stood.
“That's about Anthony.”
“Go home.”
“Mr. Torino—”
“Take Isabella home.”
“Are we in danger?”
Vincent hated the question.
He hated more that he couldn't immediately answer no.
“Not if you do what I say.”
Carmen's face hardened.
“I need more than that.”
Vincent walked around the desk.
“Anthony may be involved in something unrelated to payroll.”
“What?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Because I'm staff?”
“Because the less you know, the safer you are.”
“That sounds like something dangerous men say right before innocent people get hurt.”
Vincent stared at her.
She had courage.
Or poor survival instincts.
Possibly both.
He lowered his voice.
“Carmen, listen carefully. Go home. Lock the door. If anyone approaches you claiming I sent them, call me first.”
Her face lost color.
“Isabella?”
“Keep her with you.”
“Should I be scared?”
Vincent hated lying to her.
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
Then nodded.
Vincent gave her a card.
A number written on the back.
“My private line.”
“You already answered my texts.”
“This one rings even if my phone is set to silent.”
Carmen took it.
“You give this to all the maids?”
“No.”
Their eyes held for a second too long.
Carmen looked away first.
“I'll get Isabella.”
Vincent walked her to the door.
“Carmen.”
She turned.
“You did nothing wrong.”
Her expression trembled.
Nobody had apparently said that to her in a long time.
She nodded and left.
Twenty minutes later, Marco called again.
Vincent answered on the first ring.
“Talk.”
“He met somebody.”
“Who?”
“We can't see the face.”
“Location?”
“Parking structure behind the Moretti club.”
Vincent grabbed his jacket.
“I'm coming.”
“Don't.”
Vincent stopped.
Marco's voice sharpened.
“Anthony isn't alone.”
“How many?”
“Six men that we can see.”
“Moretti?”
“Looks like it.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“Get audio.”
“Working on it.”
Then Marco went silent.
“Marco?”
“One of them handed Anthony something.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
“Of?”
Silence.
Vincent felt something cold move through him.
“Marco.”
“Carmen.”
Vincent's grip tightened on the phone.
“And Isabella.”
The room seemed to shrink around him.
“Get them home now.”
“I already sent two men.”
“Men Carmen recognizes?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Vincent reached for his gun.
Marco heard the movement.
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“If Moretti has pictures of Carmen and Isabella, then Anthony didn't just sell payroll information.”
Vincent knew.
He had sold names.
Routines.
Weaknesses.
Lorenzo Moretti had spent months trying to discover what mattered to Vincent Torino.
Until three nights ago, the answer would have been territory.
Money.
Power.
Reputation.
Then a hungry eight-year-old girl had hidden in his pantry.
And somehow, without meaning to, Isabella had become something Vincent's enemies could use.
That frightened him far more than any threat Lorenzo had made.
Because Vincent understood warfare.
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What he didn't understand was how to protect something he had only just realized he cared about.
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